Spirits of the Earth: The Complete Series: (A Post-Apocalyptic Series Box Set: Books 1-3)

by Milo James Fowler

  The shots had ceased. The jeeps sat idling and empty. Our brothers lay sprawled out across the ground, face up or face down, wounded and bleeding, immobile...or being eaten.

  Their attackers—strange-looking men with exposed, sun-charred leather skin and wild, unkempt hair, wearing only rags—roved quickly from one fallen victim to the next in a starved frenzy, gleaming blades drawn as they cut into our brothers and ate their flesh, pulling out wet organs and fighting among themselves over every piece.

  Our shock at the sight lasted only a moment. In its place erupted white hot fury. Screaming, the muscles in his neck straining against the jumpsuit's collar, Samson led the charge. We rushed the cannibals just as they became aware of us. Their attention had been completely consumed by their gruesome feast, but no longer. They turned with eyes bulging from deformed faces, fresh blood dripping from twisted mouths. Sharpened fangs flashed gruesomely.

  Two figures rose up from a ravaged body as Samson came upon them. Both his large gloved hands shot out and grabbed their heads, smashing them together with a burst of blood and brains. Their ragged bodies fell limply in his wake. I'd never seen such a brutal display of strength.

  I followed close behind, leaping over one of my fallen brothers as I flexed the sharp claws from my fingers. They extended through holes in my gloves as I descended upon one of the monsters. He raised his knife and cried in a garbled voice, but I raked my talons across his face and chest, and he staggered back. Then I plunged my hand into his throat and ripped out his trachea. He fell writhing, incapacitated, and I moved on, fueled by a wild ferocity I'd never known before. I lashed out without thinking, as if driven by animal instinct, and even though I'd never killed anything before in my life, I knew how to destroy these creatures.

  I'd seen it happen in a dream.

  Something crashed to my left. One of the hostiles had broken the face shield of my brother with a knife, then forced the blade out the back of his skull. The attacker moved on, but my brother swayed unsteadily on his feet, his head twitching strangely before he collapsed and lay still.

  Rage boiled within me. I charged after the monster as he ran to one of the waiting jeeps. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw three other savages fleeing toward their vehicles. I looked ahead. The stock of a rifle sat next to the driver's seat. Were they running in retreat? Or merely to fetch more weapons?

  Indecision gripped me as I weighed my chances of dodging a bullet. But I didn't alter my course, and as the creature reached the jeep and lunged into the seat, I took a flying leap. I hit the ground hard, nearly knocking the wind out of me. The jeep tore off at full speed, spewing sand and dust against my face shield. The other two vehicles followed, headed in the same direction: east.

  Samson found me as I got to my feet, staring after them.

  "We got eight of 'em. The other four escaped." His broad chest heaved as he caught his breath. His jumpsuit and face shield were splattered with blood. "One of them left this...in Reagan's face." He wiped the knife across his sleeve and handed it to me. "Military. Government issue."

  I took the hilt of the dagger and noted the UW insignia laser-engraved into the steel blade. "How many of ours?" My voice sounded hollow.

  "All of Holmes' bunch. And Reagan." He cursed. "Maybe fifteen were..." He couldn't bring himself to say it.

  "I know." Carved up, butchered. Eaten. "We'll bury them." I handed him the knife.

  "What if those freaks come back?" He faced the cloud of dust retreating into the distance.

  "We'll dig quickly."

  We buried all of our fallen brothers. For some of them, it was only what remained of their bodies. Plato kept watch, armed with our only weapon—the military dagger. We left the mangled bodies of the cannibals to rot in the sun.

  It was strange to see their exposed skin, hard and blistered. Their mouths gaped open, revealing teeth sharpened to points, obviously for tearing into human flesh. Their eyes, yellow and bulbous, oozed a foul-smelling mucus, as did their ears and noses. Their faces were severely deformed, their shoulders and backs hunched over and thickly muscled. It was obvious they had suffered some sort of genetic mutation, but we could offer only conjecture as to what could have caused it.

  Had they left their bunker too soon, before All-Clear, and fallen victim to whatever radioactive toxins remained outside? How fast had their DNA been damaged to manifest such bizarre physiological changes? And why had they turned to cannibalism? Had their nourishment packs run out?

  Something horrendous and incomprehensible had happened to these men. But we spared no sympathy for them. They were the enemy, predators intent on hunting us down to the last meal.

  Another bullet blasts the rock above me and I cringe, tightening my grip on the crossbow. They know where I am. They must have seen me take cover here. My claws flex outward involuntarily, then retract as I weigh my chances at changing location. As if to punctuate the futility of such an attempt, another bullet ricochets, followed by another.

  Then everything is quiet. I hear only my own breathing—rapid and too loud. Below me, footsteps crunch the gravel at the base of the slope where it levels out. A rifle bolt cracks, shattering the silence.

  The daemon is reloading.

  I jump to my feet and aim the crossbow at him. He stands twenty meters away, staring back at me with lidless eyes as his misshapen hands deftly load the rifle. The full moonlight casts a surreal backdrop to our silent face-off. Time slows. I can't tell what lies behind his bulbous yellow gaze. Instinct? Conscious thought? Is he even human anymore?

  I don't call out. I don't want to alert the other two daemons on the opposite side of the ridge. Daiyna and her group have attempted to flank them, and I hope they've been successful.

  Silence holds the moment.

  The daemon's rifle is loaded. My finger tightens on the trigger of the crossbow. He snorts, involuntarily it seems, as thick mucus oozes from his gaping nasal cavity. Then he raises the rifle with practiced ease and takes quick aim.

  Samson appears on the daemon's right and plunges in his spear. Taken by surprise, the daemon lurches against the blade in his ribs and throws back his head to cry out. But Samson is too quick. In an instant, he's behind the daemon with knife in hand, slashing his throat in one swift movement and dropping him gurgling in his own blood. Samson pulls the spear free, then plunges it in again to be sure the daemon is dead. Satisfied, he looks up at me and grins, holding up one finger.

  I nod. One down. Two to go.

  My boots crunch across the gravel as I join my brothers. I try to quiet my footsteps, stepping heel to toe. There's no sign of the other daemons.

  Plato retrieves the fallen rifle and examines it closely, his hands unfamiliar with such a weapon. Nevertheless, he holds it up and shakes it triumphantly. I can't hide my smile. It's a victory, our first in months. We now have one of their firearms. A step in the right direction, but balancing the scales in our favor will take more than a single rifle.

  Plato points at the insignia on the stock. There it is again, the same that's on the dagger Samson carries: United World. Another military-grade weapon?

  Shots ring out from the other side of the ridge. Samson grabs the rifle from Plato and gestures for us to follow. Warily, we begin the climb. More shots. Bullets ricochet off boulders, blasting dust into the air. We charge up the slope, keeping our weight forward as sand shifts at our feet. Samson falls prostrate with rifle in hand, tucked against his shoulder. Plato and I hit the ground at his side.

  Below us, Daiyna and five of her sisters have scattered across the hillside, finding cover behind lopsided boulders jutting out of the ground. At the bottom of the grade, two daemons stand brazenly in the open, firing their rifles at will. Between volleys, they wait patiently for any movement, their eyes twitching side to side, their mouths sagging open. They tilt their heads one way and then the other like a pair of deranged hunters, toying with their prey.

  "Go to hell," Samson grates out quietly, taking careful aim through the rifl
e scope.

  "You know what you're doing?" Plato whispers

  Samson shrugs. "We'll see."

  He pulls the trigger, and the rifle kicks back hard against his shoulder, startling him. He curses as he quickly regains control of the weapon. The shot was wide, causing the daemons to cower and shriek. They glance at each other, then turn and charge toward the ridge.

  Straight toward us.

  "Brilliant," Plato mutters, pressing himself against the ground. "Now what?"

  Samson takes aim. But he hesitates.

  "You've got this," I encourage him.

  One of the daemons calls out, his voice guttural and the words garbled, echoing against the hillside. Both creatures look up in our general direction and fire their weapons before Samson can get off another shot. The gravel and dust fly upward on impact, less than a meter from our faces. The same daemon calls out again. Is it taunting us?

  We should fall back.

  "I've got him." Samson squeezes the trigger, and this time he manages to hold the rifle steady despite the impact against his shoulder.

  The bullet hits one of the daemons in the midsection, and he doubles over, screaming wildly as he's thrown backward to tumble down the hillside. Samson fires again and hits him in motion, taking off half his head with a burst of blood.

  Samson holds up two fingers and grins.

  The remaining daemon glances at his fallen comrade. Then he lunges straight for us, rifle held low as he drills us with a barrage of fire.

  "Fall back!" I tug at my two brothers, and we slide down from the ridge.

  "How is it firing so many rounds?" Plato shouts over the din as the raining bullets slam into the ground above us, sending up plumes of dust.

  Samson turns his rifle over, studying it. "Must have an automatic mode."

  We dive behind an outcropping of rock just as the daemon mounts the top of the ridge and stops, scanning the hillside below, undoubtedly spotting our scuffled tracks. He snorts and reloads his weapon as Samson takes aim.

  "Wait." I start to my feet. "Cover me."

  "What are you doing? Are you insane?" Plato hisses.

  I raise a hand to him and rise above our shelter. The daemon locks his eyes on me, but his fingers don't move any faster as he reloads his weapon. I'm no threat to him. I'm his next meal.

  He's the hunter. I am merely prey.

  What am I doing?

  "You there!" I call up to him, my voice echoing confidently even as I fight to keep my knees from trembling. "Can you understand me?"

  He snorts, mucous drooling from where a nose should be. Instead there are only two holes, like the face of a skull. The rifle is loaded now, and he raises it, aiming at me. Any second, Samson will take him out with a head shot. But first I have to know.

  "Why are you doing this?" Can he speak?

  The daemon grunts, shaking his head oddly as if there's a fly buzzing in his ear.

  "Get down, Luther!" Samson roars, jumping to his feet. "Go to hell, daemon!"

  He squeezes the trigger. Nothing. He ducks down quickly, and I fall beside him as the daemon descends the ridge. With him comes another barrage of fire, blasting against the rock sheltering us.

  "What happened?" Plato yells, covering his ears and cowering.

  Samson curses and scowls at his rifle, pounding the weapon with his fist. "Jammed!"

  The daemon's automatic fire rains down, growing in intensity as the creature fast approaches.

  Then it stops. Our ears ring in the sudden silence.

  We glance at each other. Samson hesitates before attempting to return fire. He points away from us and pulls the trigger. A round explodes from the muzzle and burrows into the earth. Satisfied, he peers over the outcropping of rock.

  "Hold!" Daiyna's voice calls out. "It's down."

  "Hello, Ladies," Samson says, cocking an eyebrow as he rises to his fullest height. "Decided to join the fight?"

  A daemon lies at Daiyna's feet with two arrows through his neck. The bloated chest heaves with gasps rasping through jagged teeth. His rifle has been kicked aside.

  "We've been here all along," she retorts, gesturing for the woman behind her to finish off the daemon with a spear.

  "Really? I could've sworn you just arrived." Samson winks at her.

  "Through the heart, Shechara. If a daemon has one." Daiyna points, turning her back on Samson.

  "Wait." I step forward. She frowns at me. "Please."

  Daiyna halts her sister, but the frown doesn't leave her brow. She watches me, they all do, as I kneel beside the fallen daemon and look at him closely.

  "Careful, Luther," Plato warns. "It still looks hungry."

  The oozing yellow eyes twitch as they focus on me. The stench of rotten meat is almost unbearable, but I don't draw back. Is that human hide he wears as a second skin?

  "Who are you?" I whisper.

  He stares back at me, but it's impossible to tell if there is any conscious thought behind his eyes. They have the look of a wild animal's, fueled by instinct, driven by hunger. Thick saliva drips out of his gaping mouth, and his stomach churns at my proximity.

  "Where do you come from?" When we were first attacked, the daemons came from the east, and it was there they fled when we drove them out of our village. "Was your bunker compromised?" Did biotoxins somehow manage to get inside? "Did you leave your bunker before All-Clear?"

  Nothing registers in his gaze.

  "Can you understand me?"

  A gurgle erupts from his throat where the arrows pierce him. His gnarled hand jerks up and clamps my jaw, sharp fingernails digging into the sides of my face as he pulls me toward his mouth with unyielding brute strength.

  "Luther!" Daiyna cries.

  "I've got him!" Samson bellows, firing three rounds into the daemon's legs.

  The grip on my face tightens. The gurgling grows louder, strained, as if he's trying to speak. The fangs reek of carrion.

  "Shoot him again!" Plato yells.

  "No," I manage. "He's—saying—"

  "He's trying to eat your face!"

  Samson may be right. But if this creature is attempting to communicate, we might not be afforded another opportunity to learn about their kind. We have to know our enemy so we'll know better how to fight them. What are their strengths? Their weaknesses? Motivation?

  The daemon's teeth clamp down on my ear, piercing through the flesh.

  Ignoring the cries of alarm around me, the hands that fight to free me, the additional rounds Samson fires into the creature's legs, I flex my talons and plunge them into the daemon's chest, tearing into his ribs. A guttural scream erupts from the deformed mouth, and the fangs lose their grip on my ear lobe. I fall back, refusing the aid offered to me.

  "Satisfied?" Daiyna takes the spear from Shechara and drives it through the daemon into the ground. The creature exhales a long, wheezing gasp and lies still, bulbous eyes staring vacantly.

  "What were you thinking?" Plato frowns at my ear.

  I feel for missing flesh and find only a set of fresh piercings that bleed down my neck. "I had to know."

  "Know what exactly? That these things want to eat us? I thought that was already well-established." Plato shakes his head. "You need that wound cleaned out. Come with me." He takes me by the shoulder and turns me toward the cave high above us.

  I look back at Samson, and he grins, holding up three fingers. "Three rifles, too. And a jeep," he booms. "Not bad for one night, eh Luther?"

  "Not bad at all, my friend." I should share his joy at our first victory in battle. We accomplished what we set out to do, and the Creator has blessed us. Not one of ours was lost.

  "Shechara." Daiyna turns to her sister. "Go with Luther and Plato. Make sure no other daemons are out tonight. Take this." She hands her the daemon's fallen rifle.

  Shechara nods, keeping her gaze downcast as she takes the large weapon and slings it over her shoulder by the strap. Then she moves to my side. She's been blessed with far-sight, and it was due to her gift t
hat we knew this band of daemons was headed our way.

  "Thank you for your help tonight, Shechara." I look at her, but she doesn't return my gaze. Her dark eyes remain fixed on the ground before her, waiting for us to begin our climb toward the caves. "You have a great gift. May the Creator bless you for your courage."

  She stiffens, drawing back slightly.

  She's attractive, as are all the women from Sector 50. Their lack of hair doesn't interfere with their beauty. Shechara tends to be quieter than most, but when I've been graced by her eyes, I've found a world of feeling behind them.

  Plato leads the way up the steep grade, and I follow with Shechara close behind. I glance down at my hand, extended claws wet with the daemon's blood. I avert my gaze.

  Three rifles and a solar-powered vehicle will be a great help to us. When day breaks, we'll set out in search of the creatures' place of origin. We must know how many there are, whether they have other machines, tools, or technology we could put to use.

  Why do their weapons carry the UW insignia? Did they happen upon a military bunker after they emerged from their own? Or were they supplied with weapons and vehicles from the start? If so, why would the government scientists have equipped these creatures with such things and left us entirely without? We now represent three sectors—43, 50, and 51. Three separate bunkers. Not one of them was supplied with a weapon or vehicle of any sort.

  Most of our supplies are nourishment packs—hydro, protein, vitamineral. We should have enough to last a year if we ration them well. In that time, with the Creator's help, we hope to make it to the northern sectors. According to the bunker database, the Preserve is an untouched wilderness sheltered from the ravages of war by some sort of energy field. I have to believe it remains, that it's still there waiting for us. To think otherwise would lead to despair.

  Ironic that we have plenty of nourishment, but no weapons or vehicles that would help us in our journey north, while the daemons possess what we lack. Yet they have no food. Why else would they resort to eating the flesh of their own kind?